Small Victories
by Bladestar123
Summary: A tale of love and loss in the mind of someone too stupid to comprehend either. A RWBY SI.
1. Chapter 1

_Breathe_

 _Breathe_

"- on will be needing more of the P-23 for her lum-"

" -get on that when the director actually _pays_ f-"

"-ke sure that she doesn't take too lon-"

"-possibly too much already done to her, the S-43 w-"

"-lready had a break this morning! Honestly, did y-"

 _Fade_

 _Move_

The door rolled open, hospital gown swishing, the smooth hiss of oiled hinges squeaking as the door slid home behind me. I turned, glancing either way down the white-light hallway, doors shut all the way down. The fluorescent lighting pulsed, clashing terribly with the shuttered skylights, and I really had to question who designed the hallway to prevent easy sunlight entry. I leaned casually back, rap-tap-tapping my foot against the floor in a sort of forced relaxation. The nurses continued walking and gossiping, making their way down, as my impatience grew. Finally, the noon inspection passed, and I began walking opposite the direction the nurses had gone.

 _Two doors down to the right, 30 minutes until the doctor's are off break_

This was the second floor (or so the Head Nurse had told me) and that meant that there should be a window roughly two doors down and one floor above my room. I paused before the door, waiting a breath. It would take about 2 minutes for someone to move up the stairs with my supposedly injured leg, so I had to lose the extra time I'd bought to escape the Janitor's post-lunch vigil below. But my practice and study had finally paid off, and this should be the right time to just slip out.

Having decided I waited long enough, I turned my back to the door, hands behind me clicking the latch and letting myself in. No one passed, and I sighed as I passed fully though and blocked off my vision with the pasty blue paint. I turned after shutting it fully, and came face to maw with the unamused expression of the head nurse.

The door clicked shut, and I refused to let my heartbeat change my expression.

"Ms. Limetart, how are you this morning."

Her cavernous eye sockets stared me down. "Ms. _Lisehart_ is fine this morning, thank you, and how are you?"

"Quite well, quite well", I blinked. "Shame the weather doesn't match, so I suppose I'll be goi-" I turned to beat a hasty retreat, but the crone moved faster.

She moved aside. The sun was shining brilliantly into the room.

"Ah, well, the mood in my heart is that of a cloudy overcast," I continued turning and gave her my best smile.

"Of course, of course. First floor rooms tend to be that way, no windows due to security concerns you see. Perhaps, you should stand in the sun to feel better."

She eyed me as I slowly shuffled sideways, narrowing her eyes as I tried my hardest to sweat quietly.

"And speaking of security, _why_ is one of my dear patients out of his bed so early?"

I slid slowly around to her left, trying to get around her. She took a single step and cut me off.

I was beginning to feel distinctly attacked.

"Well, you know. Only so long you can sit in a bed until it tires you out. I thought I should get some air."

One of her forehead wrinkles moved, I think. Might have twitched. Or maybe it was the botox withdrawal, I was confident that I had not hallucinated her weeping over the packaging.

Either way, I was confident in assuming it was an expression of her pity, and pressed onward. "Can't be helped, after all, plain white walls and a blank tv take their toll."

"You have a remote."

"I can't read."

"Then turn off CC."

"The letterboxing gives me a headache without words to fill the gaps."

Another twitch, I felt confident that I was close to winning the crone to my side. Time to play on her latent motherly instincts buried...deep. Deep, very deep, somewhere inside her. Maybe. I began sliding to the side again, and this time I managed to slip around her, and into the room proper, where some random patient looked like he was in pain.

I pointed to him. "Look at this poor sod, I heard he was lonely, so I came to visit."

She raised a craggy brow. "My, how uncharacteristically kind of you to do so, when most of you floormates claim they can't even get you to share crackers."

"I am a kind man," I say haughtily, "Very kind. But the curse of such kindness, alas, is that so many leeches exist to take advantage of it. One must be wary of such creatures."

"You don't even eat those biscuits, surely sharing them is of no consequence?"

I shook my head sadly. "Of course not, how else will they appreciate what they have?"

She gestured at the young man in the bed. "Oh? And what of this man?"

I looked around quickly, spotting literally nothing of value.

"Doesn't look like he's got anything to appreciate. I mean, I'm here to offer him something to appreciate."

I immediately walked over, and sat beside him.

"Who-"

I prooffered my hand. "Hello, I've heard a great deal about you."

He blinked. "But no one's ever come to speak to m-"

"They say you have the potential to be a great friend," I continued smoothly, "and I'd love to also be your friend!"

"I've never had a friend..."

I clapped. "First time for everything, lovely to meet you at last!"

He smiled slightly, a tremulous thing. It did my heart good to see such a thing, leaving aside the horrible drool stains at the corners and that sleep stuff in his eyes. He clearly wasn't expecting visitors.

A heavy hand laid itself on my shoulder, and I felt her grip my soul in a vice. I desperately hoped that the cushion I was sitting on was absorbent, and pretended not to notice.

"Now, I'm very glad you two have decided to get along, it's wonderful. Really it is, but my dear patient here really should be running along no-"

"W-wait", he stuttered, eyes wide open.

I tried not to let the victory show in my expression, even as it felt like she was trying to tear my shoulder off. I had a distinct feeling that she was trying to put me back in the ER, where I couldn't escape.

"He's the first visitor I-I've had..." the young man continued. "Please, could you..."

Time to capitalize.

"He's right you know. I mean," I waved a magnanimous hand, "look at this poor, lonely bastard."

His head snapped to me so fast it cut off the rest of my sentence. "How did you know about my father's de-"

"Anyway," I turned to the nurse, lips twitching madly. "You should go. I'm making friends here, you know?"

She resigned herself to defeat with the sound of mortared bricks being laid, all clashing and wet snaps.

I knew she had a soft spot for me.

As soon as she reluctantly left the room, I waited for thirty seconds in dead silence, before creeping to the door.

I placed my ear against it. Silence. 10 seconds later, nothing had changed.

 _Safe_

I threw the kid a jaunty salute, and slid it open, coming face to face with nightmares reborn.

"Ah, hello Ms. Limetart, what are you doing?"

"Ms. _Lisehart_ would like to know the same thing. I thought you were making friends with the boy."

The breeze picked up.

"Airflow," I said mechanically.

" _What_?"

"There's no airflow in the room, none at all, the wind is completely still." My mind raced. "By opening the door and window we can get a decent breeze."

"Denied."

I shrugged. "Well, then,"

I slammed the door shut and turned slowly back to the boy.

"Why-"

"Third time I've tried to escape." I muttered. "She catches me every time. Last time, she even burned my clothes so I wouldn't be able to leave without looking like a nudist."

He blinked. "Is that even _legal_?"

I shrugged. "Doesn't really matter."

He cocked his head, and I smirked proudly in response.

"She thought shame would restrain me, but sucks to suck, I've spent so much time walking around like this that I'm _already_ a nudist!"

Having said as much, I turned and opened the door, only a crack this time. Nothing. I peeked my head out, checking the left and right. I spotted what I was looking for at last, all the way down the hallway, then turned and sprinted for the window.

"W-Where are you going?!" the boy, he really was a boy, called.

"The door." I responded.

"The door is the other way though."

"Not this one. This one only opens for another minute thirty."

That threw him for a loop, and there was blessed silence as I managed to jimmy the slide open, and hooked a leg over the sill.

"W-what happens in a minute thirty?"

"Janitor comes by," came the voice from through the window I had fully begun lowering myself from. "To clean the room and grab a tab of your painkillers."

His eyes widened. "That's for all day! Why?!"

"They go for a good price on the corner."

A pillow went soaring by the windowsill.

"W-Where are they?!"

"I grabbed the rest while you distracted the matron."

"Is-is that why you're leaving?"

He sounded teary, so I tossed him another salute before I dropped. "Nope. It's cause I can't pay the bills. Later nerd."

"B-but wait!"

A loud crash, and a scream of pain echoed from the open window.

"Ms. Lisehart plants rosebushes below the window..." the boy whispered sadly to himself.


	2. Chapter 2

_They say you can measure the worth of a man from the worth of his box._

 _Wait, no, hold on. Let me try again._

 _A man is only as nice as his box._

 _No, that came out wrong. It's not the point, the point of what I'm trying to convey. One more time._

 _They say that the worth of a man can fit in a box._

 _There. Inaccurate perhaps, but that's how metaphors go. No guiding lines there kiddo._

 _All you are is a box. A box for you, your clothes, your livelihood and dreams and wishes and hopes and loves. Yeah you heard me. "Loves", get it?_

 _Let me explain then, it's me subtly telling you to get the fuck over it._

 _One box. That's all you get. That's all anyone ever really gets._

 _Size you ask? Well, why does that matter? You know the size already, don't you? Boil down everything you are, and just pile it up in front of you. There. There's the size of your box._

 _'But it's not enough', you mewl plaintively, heh, well, let this sage give you some advice. Did you really need most of that anyway?_

 _Eh? How's that?_

 _You piece of shit, I heard that. I fucking vomit wisdom, I'll have you know you little prick. Be grateful. Be humble. Be thankful I give a shit at all._

 _What's that?_

 _Well, fuck you too._

* * *

I slammed the phone the phone down to a symphony of dirty looks, and leaned back a little on the barstool. My box was beside me, nursing a drink of its own, though the glass was suspiciously full. Trying to guilt me, maybe. Telling me to get a real job.

Well, maybe I like running a help line. It's easy money, and I was good at it. Kind of.

Not many people bothered calling back, so I counted it as a victory. Maybe they decided to get some real fucking help.

I leered at my box in judged affront, who stared right back with marker-scented breath and lips pursing themselves back to two dimensions. Prick, thinking he knows better than me. Well, he may be my last, but he sure don't get to choose my future.

That's a lie, I'm lying. I'm not gonna get far with all my worldly possessions disapproving of my decisions in life. They say you need to convince them you know what you're doing, put them at ease, but I can't say I have much experience wine-and-dining cheap cardboard.

And I do mean cheap. I didn't bother shelling out for a better box, just to hold spare hospital gowns and a case of medication.

The bartender raised a brow as I gave him the all-clear, fingers curled up in invitation.

He ambled over with an easy smile and several glasses in hand, into which I tossed a couple of plastic chits for my next drink.

He obliged. Politely.

So fucking hard to find these days, politeness. I teared up a little despite myself. He was a good guy, this bartender. Let me use his phone to run my business, didn't give me any drinks I didn't pay for, kicked me out with the crowd, never spoke, didn't give me his name - nevermind, he was a prick.

Also, he called his phone a scroll. He had an actual scroll, but he called his wall phone scroll a scroll too. What an asshole.

At least call it a wallscroll. Homescroll. LifeAlert. Anything. Differentiate them motherfucker.

I slid his logbook over, the rows of names and numbers glazing my eyes until they slid to the next open place. I scrawled in my information, the alcohol in my veins jerking my arm enough to make the text nigh illegible, along with the duration of the call. That done, I tried to slip a chit between the pages at the bottom of the book where he'd find it during his bookkeeping, but the damn thing bumped into some kind of raised surface. Brows raised, I flipped to the place I found, and saw a post-it next to some information, sitting alone deep in the logbook, where no one would likely see it for days, weeks even if business slowed down.

The name was mine, but the rest of it was foreign. The post-it note read "We failed, call Andy and warn him."

Man, fuck this place. It's already getting to me.

I took note of the address provided, and shut the book with a slam, sliding it back down the bar.

I slid out of my chair, haughty, and slowly bumbled my way back to the bar entrance. He watched me go, bitter at losing a customer probably, but then I barely ever bought anything and held counter seats for hours at a time.

Sometimes - rarely, but sometimes - my self-disgust was palpable enough for even I to notice.

* * *

The sun did me no favors. I hated it. What an asshole. Lidless bastard. Asshole. Dickbag.

"You know," the man in clown makeup sitting besides me drawled, "I really do question how you spend your days if staring at the sun is your idea of a good time."

I sniffed. Obviously the man in clown makeup had no idea what he was talking about. The sun was incidental; talking to people in clown makeup was my idea of a good time.

"You're a creepy little shit, aren't you."

Well, fuck you too.

"I find it funny that you consider the person interacting with you to be the creepy one."

He bristled at that. "You are," he shot back, "Who the fuck likes clowns? You're cramping my style here."

"I assumed you believed as much." I gave him a dry look. "Seeing as you're in the position you are, here I believed that you had some ignorant preposition regarding the state of your profession. I sought to enlighten you, and enjoy myself in the process."

He puffed up proudly. "Not so; I'm well aware of how clowns are perceived, especially in this city.."

An eyebrow greeted the man in clown makeup. "And yet...?"

A shrug replied. "Art is to suffer, so in consideration of my dream, I figured I'd better start logging my hours. You know," he shrugged, "Before someone gets the impression that I haven't. Dangerous assumption that."

I tried meet his eyes, but his glazed view saw something in that horizon I didn't. I cleared my throat.

"As a clown."

"That's right."

"Fascinating."

We turned as one and squinted at the sun. The silence was a little quieter now. A little harder.

"You still want those drugs?"

"Gotta keep the spirits up."

"What happened to suffering?"

"My heart is fucking bleeding at these prices you little bastard, that's suffering enough."

I refused to acknowledge that. Fuck 'im, I had to eat too yanno. His clown makeup was shit anyway, where the fuck did he get off on dissing my prices?

10 minutes later, a Clown stood, and stretched. "Well, I'm off."

I waved him off grumpily, still sulking. "Do pay attention to your mental health."

"Eh, my colleague says the same. I saw a flyer for a local help line, I'll try giving it a call."

"I wouldn't count on that."

* * *

I leaned against the wall of the alley, counting some of the profits for the day. I'd be running out of, ah, stock relatively soon, and that meant securing a new supply of money. Selling my own meds was one thing, but robbing other people was no good. Besides that one kid I totally robbed, but he had it coming anyway. He had that sort of face, you know. The kind that sung a sweet serenade to the bottom of the nearest toilet bowl.

I considered myself a bit of a martyr, meeting those people. I simply couldn't help myself from playing matchmaker. A nasty habit, I know, poking my nose in another's romance, but I, ah, simply couldn't help myself.

God, I tear myself up.

Man, was I broke. Broker than broke, broke as fuck, so broke the word had lost meaning and sense.

All this money? It needed to be gone. It needed to be gone ASAP, since I'd recently discovered that there were some people that didn't appreciate hospital cases like me edging on the market. This money was evidence.

I hefted the small pile, letting them clatter like church bells. Sweet, sweet evidence. And more importantly, unsourced. That would need to change as soon as I could manage.

I leaned carefully against wall, idly shaking some dirt beneath my foot to the toe rather than work up the energy to bend down and take the damn thing off. The quality of the shoes wasn't great anyway.

I idly looked down at the bills, cursing the very concept of shitty plastic money as I eyed it speculatively.

* * *

I walked out of the store in my new threads, feeling clean and starched. The people passing by seemed to be staring less already, as I adjusted my new jacket self-consciously. The crowds accepted me easily this time as I stepped in, whereas before people avoided me. It's hard to appreciate simple anonymity like that until it's been stripped away. A human sort of comfort it is, to be able to simply blend into a crowd and feel like everything will be alright.

That last one is the caveman instincts, by the way. Safety in numbers, a pretty smooth jazz if I do say so. Which led neatly into my next plan, to disappear into the crowds.

I'd need a job. A relatively common one with a large number of applicants and low job security. The sort of thing where I could reasonably earn money and then simply leave. Vanish into the herds.

I caught my clown friend in the corner of my eye, head bowed and eyes empty, trying to catch attention.

He met my eyes in the crowd, slowly, and I saw that the Clown in him was almost gone. Almost back to being a man again. He didn't have it in him, didn't have that spark that could make a man great. He leaned on the drugs a little too much to be able to fake it convincingly either.

He'd lost, and he didn't want to admit it. I saw it.

Okay, I lied. I couldn't see that. But I could guess it, from how he refused to step up. I was almost impressed that he recognized me without the gown. I'd never got the impression that he was one for faces. Makes sense he'd go for the makeup.

He looked away, and I kept walking. I had an address to visit, and it likely had something for me too.

He'd be fii-i-i-ine.

 **Man, that LifeAlert bit dated this super hard. Also, fun fact, I don't actually remember writing that box rant, I just woke up one morning with my phone on my chest and that entire thing written in the notes.**


	3. Chapter 3

Vale was beautiful, the brochure said. A vision of wealth and plenty, the entire region was a hallmark of modern design and infrastructure designed to allow even the meanest tourist easy access to most every convenience they could need. The images showed deep wooded forests and parks full of laughing children.

I looked up, and instead beheld homes of a deep red stone, glowing mildly in the sunset. They were carved carefully, each flowing into the next with only the dark steel barriers breaking the smooth tiled wave flowing from roof to roof. The trees that I saw were of a milder sort, willowy and smooth, each branch trimmed and pruned so that they never quite took away from the shaped loveliness they existed to enhance.

To the right, this opened up into a vast amphitheatre, shaped wood and stone crosshatched into seating enough for the whole city, all focused on a set of massive tents in the center. A broad stone archway permitted me entrance to the theatre, though the entire thing was open from every direction, with a sign swinging idly over my head and proclaiming THE MISTRAL CIRCUS to anyone that cared to notice.

If that didn't do it for you, god help you because I don't know what will.

Suffice to say, Mistral was a lovely place, and I felt horribly out of place at nearly all times.

You see, I was horribly, horribly lonely. I had no home, few marketable skills, no paperwork or identity, and no one I knew or loved.

Depressing really, no? I nearly shed a tear right there, which probably would have made things pretty awkward with who I was trying to see.

I was banking on the circus being able to help me. Just having "circus" on my backstory would hopefully divert questions about, you know, who the fuck I was.

Look, I was desperate, and I didn't really have many other options I could think of.

The ringleader soon sat across from me in a tent, eyeing me suspiciously. I gave him my best smile, and he seemed to recoil a little.

I stopped smiling, and instead tried to make something resembling focus appear on my face. Eyebrows together, eyes open a little more, mouth downtur-

Wait, frowning might be a bad idea, in case he thinks I'm not interested. Mouth turned up - no, he might think I'm laughing. Neutral - judgemental, flat - uninterested, twitching - irritated, ah shit my eyebrows are drifting, refocus, eyes pointed at his chin so I don't make him uncomfortable, mouth curling - mocking, shit, smoothen forehead so I don't look pressured, smirk - confidence, perfect, eyebrows apart - what was I thinking he has eyebrows like markers - and curved, fuck my eyes are lidded, open them again -

Say, I think he was saying something.

" - and when she does, you'll need to step in and guide her." He eyed me, and I tried to freeze my expression in their position, and nodded confidently. He smiled a little, and tried to meet my eyes. I tilted my entire head back a little to match his look, and stared into his eyes. He stared back.

Was I supposed to get something? I stared harder. He blinked, and my head shot back down to chin-level.

He coughed slightly, and awkwardly started standing, creased white suit rumpling over a gut that I must admit, he was quite adept at concealing while sitting, I'd hardly noticed the thing jesus - I looked at him as he began walking to the exit, and I slowly got up, hunching slightly in case I needed to sit back down.

He made no indication of that however, so I continued following behind him

I'm quite certain he already thought fondly of me, so surely nothing bad would happen. Not having said a word was a point in my favor right?

What was going on again?

* * *

Somewhere between the snake charmer and the trapeze I realized that the ringleader seemed altogether far too familiar with this sort of thing. And by that, I mean that I'd just realized that I hadn't actually asked him for a job yet but he'd already begun leading me somewhere.

I turned to the Ringleader to ask him what the shit was going on, but he'd already walked over to some old bat hunched over a crystal ball.

She looked up, all wrinkles and bad attitude, and I instantly grew wary of the immense exhaustion in her eyes. It seemed to not be mutual, because she turned to the Ringmaster.

"My turn is it?"

The ringmaster smiled a little, and nodded.

She grunted. "Thanks Barry. "

The ringmaster shrugged. "He hasn't said a damned thing, just stared at my eyebrows."

She cackled a little, before subsiding into an expression of thoughtful intrigue I found eminently familiar.

I watched as he slowly turned redder, filling up like a wineglass, but for some reason refused to say a thing.

I cleared my throat, and she snapped out of it. The ringmaster shot me a briefly grateful glance, brows dancing, and I was briefly taken in.

He noticed.

Granny Dimanche and I watched as he slowly grumped his way away.

"So," I said conversationally. "What now?"

She shot me an amused look, and hunched over. "Well, now we get to work."

I turned to her, interested. "So you _did_ log me into that bar." My eyes narrowed, as I considered her hunched form. She didn't bother doing the same, though I had a sneaking suspicion she was looking at my reflection through the ball. "Why?"

She waved me off gently "I needed you here. Besides," she looked at me drily. "Not like you didn't take your sweet time, eh kid?"

My forehead furrowed, as I tried to parse that comment. She wanted me here...so she put _my_ name in a book she knew I had access to, with _her_ address...in a place I had literally one-in-a-million odds of actually seeing.

"That's stupid."

She gave me an even look. "Are you here or not?"

My jaw worked for a few minutes, as I wrestled with the petulant desire to slap the crystal ball off the table. I settled for passive-aggressively staring at her back, trying to _will_ her to feel guilty about making me angry.

She looked at me after a few minutes, which soothed me, right up until she just snorted. At that point I was reminding myself that homicide would look _really_ bad next to _lacking an identity_ on my future rap sheet.

"Is there," I managed to get out, "Something you _want_."

Even frustrated, I managed to remember my manners. Who said I was a bad person, huh?

She looked back for some reason, even though I _knew_ she could see me in the reflection of her stupid prop. "Sure do kid." She gestured to the chair across from her. "Siddown, we need to talk."

I moved around her, maneuvering all the _other_ stupid props she had. _Christ,_ some of this was tacky, tarot cards and fucking bones strung up from the ceiling. The _ceiling_. She could at least _pretend_ to take her shit job seriously, at least then I could respect her hustle.

I continued grumping my way through her shit, until I swerved a goddamn wardrobe I swear she _deliberately_ maneuvered to force people to move around, and sat down at the table.

She was grinning. Of fucking _course_ she was.

My eyebrow was twitching. I could feel it, the muscle tick every few seconds. Joy, that would drive me insane.

"I'm sorry about that." She had the gall to actually look embarrassed. "Hard to keep track of stuff when you're still forced to move around at my age."

I grunted a little, reluctant to admit understanding.

She sighed a little, smiling wryly. I had a feeling she knew exactly how I felt, which really didn't help me not feel that way.

Eventually I gave up the pretense, and grabbed at my face, trying to keep it still.

"So, what now." I grunted, trying not to sound like I was straining a little.

She spread out her hands. "I answer your questions."

I blinked. "My questions."

She nodded. "Two of them. No more." She panned her hand over the ball. "That's all I got in me."

"You went through, quite literally, the stupidest, most convoluted series of pointless events imaginable...to answer my questions."

She shrugged. "You need answers, and I'm willing to offer them."

I continued looking at her. She shifted a little, but didn't seem particularly embarrassed.

I thought about it for a second. "Fuck, sure why not."

She smiled a little more, just enough to edge it into genuine.

I hated her a little, in that minute. Genuinely, I felt the spite in me. She looked a little like my grandma, and I resented her for that. For blowing through the bravado, through the only thing keeping me going. For reminding me that I had so very little to lose left anymore.

I took a deep breath, and centered myself. "Alright. What do I need to know."

"I'm here to answer your-"

I smashed my hand into the table, and my fist trembled a little with pain and jitters. I felt it roar in me. "Don't- _don't_ fuck with me." I breathed a little deeper. This was going poorly. I forced myself to smile, and I felt the rush making it a little smoother on my face. The emotion making itself real. God, it really was easy to lie to yourself, wasn't it? "You brought me here for a point. Tell me what I need to know to, " I waved my other hand idly about my head. "Ask you the right questions."

She leaned back a little, and finally met my eyes. Properly. She still had that look of damnable, _damnable_ regret in her eyes.

"What do you know about Aura, kid?" She asked me soberly. Quietly.

I shrugged. "Soul magic."

Sh huffed. "Succinct, but not technically inaccurate. I take it you've seen a huntsman in action then." It wasn't a question. I could argue, that, technically I hadn't. What I would seen, well, who knew how true to _this_ reality it was. No point to it though.

She misinterpreted my hesitation. "Soul magic is a pretty common way to visualize what you've seen those types do. It's a common enough interpretation, which is why it's such an easy way to tell misinformation from _misunderstanding._ "

I shrugged. "I've seen plenty of them in the newspapers, the reports and shit. They're everywhere, hard to miss them in the...din." I shifted uncomfortably. "They show up, a lot. Like celebrities. One even visited, dropped by when I was in the..."

"Hospital." She finished. I swallowed. What little anger was gone, and now all I felt was empty. Drifting in the wind. She didn't scare me, but the feeling of being rootless did. She knew. She _knew_.

 _Why didn't she take advantage?_

"Where can I get an identity?" I asked abruptly.

"Your boss will handle that" She responded smoothly. Passing the buck, then. She didn't want to be responsible for what happened? For me? She'd answered too quickly, so perhaps she'd come into this with a defined end goal.

She'd anticipated my questions then. Irritatingly, I had a feeling that she'd consider any questions she _hadn't_ anticipated as "currently unnecessary", true or not. She felt like someone who liked to be in control. I filed that one away, as she continued speaking.

"Aura is borne of many things." She wasn't looking at me anymore. The ball had her attention now, and she spoke almost distantly as she watched it. "Pride, joy, anger, resentment. A truer expression of self you will rarely see, and one most are hesitant to show."

My brows furrowed. "I mean, it's supposedly expressed from the soul right? Surely the-"

She waved me off a little. "It bares oneself in ways most people don't care to understand. Realizes it in others. Doesn't truly matter however." She caught my look. "Really, it doesn't. The defined opinion can hardly be detracted by one old lady, and I doubt you care at all since you know I cannot unlock your soul."

 _Fuck_

"But," I said slowly. "I might be faced with it someday."

"Don't. Don't even try to fight back. Please don't ever even _consider_ it."

And then she leaned back.

I blinked. That's it? That's _it_? Fucking that's _it_? 'Don't fuck with it' fucking _what_ bitch don't fuck with _me_.

"What the f-"

"That's probably not what you want your second question to be."

 _Wrong?_

A joke? A joke? No, she was serious. Not even a crinkle of the eyes.

She seemed so goddamn confident, saying that. So fucking genuine, fuck fuck _fuck_.

"What sh-"

"Not that one either. Don't waste it on something that trivial."

 _Wrong again_

Homicide seemed more appealing by the minute.

"Why can't I-"

"Wrong question, and I believe you already know the answer."

 _Wrong_

"Where c-"

"I can't help you with that I'm afraid."

Wrongwrongwrongwrongwrongwrongohsovery _wrongwrongwrongwrongwrongwrong_

* * *

I felt defeated. I, perfection incarnate, had lost. I felt like shooting myself.

"I _can't_." I gritted out, near sobbing. "I _can't_ read your mind you old bitch. I _can't._ I _don't know_ what you want. I can't just, just, _pull the answer out!_ "

She looked disappointed. Disappointed I wasn't getting it. "I'm not telling you to ask the question _I_ want." She sighed. "I said I was answering _your_ question. Ask me _the question you want answered_."

"FINE." I burst out. "Where-"

I stopped and waited. She looked at me, expectantly. I stared at her. No interruption?

"Where c-can," I nearly stumbled, rushing to get it out, embarrassed. "Where can I go?"

There. There it was. The most childish fucking question you can ask. _Where can I go_ , not even _what can I do_ or _where am I needed_. Fucking shit.

It was what she wanted however, and I felt that simmering hatred boil a little, in my gut as she looked _relieved_ at the question.

"Well." She said slowly. "I can only recommend you try visiting a factory I know of." She spread her hands. "It isn't much that I can offer you, but it will give you a chance to make something of yourself."

She pulled a small folded paper out of her pocket, and slid it out onto the table.

I knew what was on that paper as surely as I knew the next words out of her mouth.

 _They will be expecting me at that address, on that sheet of paper, that coincidentally also cements a certain half-cocked plan I've been putting together._

"A friend of mine will be expecting you at the address on that paper."

Of course they would.


End file.
